


The Final Act

by astral_alien8



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Death, Gen, MIGHT BE TRIGGERING, Major character death - Freeform, Tormenting, Torture, Violence, Yes I tag all of this even if it is already there.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-30
Updated: 2013-10-30
Packaged: 2017-12-30 23:27:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1024654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astral_alien8/pseuds/astral_alien8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters used in this story.</p><p>WARNING: This is an intentionally violent fic. There is no pairing in this, and it was written as a prompt for a friend of mine on Tumblr, Caringwasmyfall. Here it is, Scar! Now you have a permanent link available for this oneshot fic.</p><p>A/N: Feeeeedbaaaaack! :) I would love it. Constructive criticism even. Let me know what you thiiiiink. ^^</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Final Act

Sherlock had been a constant thorn for Moriarty. It was something of a sweet revenge and a dream come true when he had finally managed to ensnare the dirty little weasel in his far-reaching and sticky web. Now he was none too willing to let his prey wiggle free of his demonic grip. It had been about a month and some change since he had captured the weasel, and he was down the hall, cell 4. He had successfully stained the cheaply laid out white sheets of the floormat that served as the plaything’s bedding a nice shade of crimson from his repeated sessions of torture. This, of course, was not to achieve any ends other than to quite simply make the detective pay for his prying ways.

Today, as Moriarty rounded the corner to enter Cell 4, the guard men in front let out a yell, leaping backward and right into the body of the rather manic criminal. He was an unstable sort, known for sudden and unpredictable switches in mood, and that was exactly what these poor men were met with once they collided with the consultant’s smaller frame.

“What the fuck do ya think you’re doing you idiots?! Get your arses in there and drag that arrogant peacock detective out here! I want to see him BLEED!!!” He barked angrily.

The men looked to their boss about to speak to their defence, when Jim’s dark eyes went impossibly darker. They were about to DARE attempt an excuse for their INSOLENCE?! Oh HELL no! “YOU IGNORANT WHELPS!! YOU GET IN THERE AND GET MY PRIZE OR I’LL HAVE THE TWO OF YOU ON THAT SLAB, SKINNED MAIMED AND PULPED SO FAST, IT’LL MAKE EVEN GOD’S HEAD SPIN!!” He snapped at them both. The two men jumped and cowered, caught in the middle of a death or death scenario. They looked to the cell with fear, and to their enraged Hellbeast of a boss with equal fear, and stuck in frozen horror, simply pointed to the cell. Moriarty, about to move on the two men in anger, heard the tell-tale click of a hammer being drawn back on a firearm, and paused in his approach. He narrowed his eyes at the men, striking one with his own pistol. “You JACKARSE! Why did you not tell me he had a bloody weapon!!??” He snarled. The two men simply cowered, not wishing to anger him any further. He scoffed and pushed them aside, motioning two of his other men down the hall to approach. In a quick-step, not wishing to make the shit list as well, they approached. “We’ve got a naughty little minx in there.” He purred with a cruel sneer. “We’ve got to get this under control. Wait for my signal. Then flashbang. Got it?” The larger male nodded, the other stood by with the manacles.

Moriarty moved into the room, met with the icy chill in the room of a murderous intent of a prey animal looking to kill for survival. Jim grinned a dark grin that reached his hollow eyes. He swayed slightly, holstering his gun, placing his hands in his pockets casually. The whole time, his eyes never left the detective, boring intently and hotly into him with the intensity of white hot lightning. As he watched the gun follow his every movement, Jim’s thirst for Sherlock’s final act of torture play grew. “Put that down now, Scooby-doo. You might hurt yourself.” He mocked. “Although, should you turn it on yourself, it may spare you greatly, and amuse me in the process.” He said darkly and with such biting ice and hollowed word.

Sherlock did not abide. “You will let me go, Moriarty, or I will not hesitate to relocate your brain matter to the floor beneath you.” Sherlock threatened relatively ineffectively. The Spider of London did not care about death threats, nor did he care much about death. He only laughed low and dark, approaching again. Daring the sleuth to back his threat. Sherlock aimed again, hand trembling as his previous wounds still had him quite weak. “Don’t test me, Jim. I will kill you.” He said flatly.

Jim knew he had the resolve to do so, but still did not care. He did a skip step and made a mocking face. “Oh Sherlock. Dear, dear Sherlock. You think I do not know that?” He said in a belittling tone. “Come ON, idiot! I’ve been chasing you for YEARS! I know you by now.” He paced a line and shot him a smirk. “Don’t suppose you’d just give that to me, would you?” He said with a shrug. His eyes darkened and he shook his head, smirking again with a nasal snicker. “Didn’t think so. Well. Guess this has to go down the hard way then.” He then turned to the door and headed out making a motion backward to the room. “Hit it, boys!” He called as he left. Suddenly a small metallic device went whizzing inside the cell, just to moments later erupt in a behemoth flash of light and an ear-splitting blast of sound.

Sherlock hit the ground, unable to react in time. His vision went, his hearing went, everything was a haze of white, his audio was just a bleak ringing and barely distinguishable muddled noise at best. He tried to shake it off, tried to come out of it. He couldn’t. It was futile. He began to panic. His heart thrummed, his breath hitched and began to run ragged and rapid. His eyes dilated and darted all about. Where was Moriarty?! Where were his men?! Nothing! Nowhere! This was not-

Suddenly he was pinned and struggling with all he had against three men. Finally he was cuffed, and still his senses were failing him! He was panicked, and trying his best to reign it in.

A cold rush of metal as his clothing though barely there as was, was ripped from him and he was forced onto a table. He hissed as his wrists were uncuffed just to be painfully and forcefully bound with razor wire. His ankles were given similar treatment as was his upper torso. Not good! Not good at all! He squinted, trying to get the focus that was starting to come to clear more, but it was a slow going process. Suddenly that hellish laugh rang out, and he knew Moriarty drew ever closer. He felt his chest tighten and his gut draw up in knots. His display surely would warrant something most heinous. He shuddered at the thought but mustered what he could of a brave façade.

“My my, little ferret. Looks like things must always end the hard way with you.” Moriarty chided darkly and teasingly.

Sherlock writhed trying to get free, just to be brutally reminded of the razor wire, as it bit into his flesh across his torso, wrists and ankles. He hissed, and cursed himself silently for the struggle and ignorance in forgetting of his situation.

Moriarty grinned, gripping his hair painfully. “Oh that wire is the least of your troubles, little vermin. Your final act is nigh, friend. Prepare for the finale.” He said, lifting his head and slamming it down on the table. He looked to his torture master with a grin. “Break his teeth, dislocate his jaw, and pierce his tongue repeatedly. Then pull it until it tears from his mouth. That will be the lead off to this arc of the Sherlock downfall story.” He purred as his demon eyes fell upon the defenceless man on the slab with cold intensity of a polar cap winter.

Sherlock felt his heard hit his toes at the words. He swore his blood rushed the opposite direction, leaving him pale. He thought he may lose consciousness at the thought as the fear gripped him, but he remained stoic, hiding it from his nemesis. He shut his eyes, trying to muster control. The torture master approached with a chisel and a small mallet, and sneered at him. “This’ll be a long night for you, prying fool of a little fly.” He said bitterly. “Should’ve backed off when Moriarty warned you.” He set the chisel down and raised the mallet, smashing it against his lips, shattering the front teeth and battering his lips as well. Sherlock felt the cry emanate from himself, but was not sure it was him doing it, as he was now separating from himself, trying not to be present for this. The man now slipped the chisel in his mough, prying open his mouth. He placed a sharp rod through his tongue and down right through his lower jaw, hammering it in. He pulled it with force repeatedly, having another stabilize his head, until Sherlock’s jaw snapped on both sides, right out of alignment, the bones cracking audibly in two, splintering beneath the flesh and muscle. A howl bellowed out in the room, and Moriarty began to dance to the sounds of Sherlock’s agony, smiling like a cat that got the cream.

“Now go for the ribs.” He started. “Use the old rusted knife there, with the jagged and broken edges. Doesn’t cut well, but that’s the point now, isn’t it?” He said with all too much glee. “Expose his torso. Y incision, my good man. I want you to apply pressure to the individual ribs. 6 of them. Until they break. Then we are going to remove some organs, ones of a non vital status. Don’t want him dead yet.” He said still dancing.

The man complied. He moved to the tray, grabbing the long rusted blade. He positioned it over Sherlock’s chest and sawed away a Y incision from the clavicles down to the navel. This was no easy task, as the blunted and broken tool was not so adequate. This elicited waves of intense pain as the cuts were repeated in the same spot of brutalized and ravaged flesh. Blood pooled and ran, a crimson river as the flesh and muscle was torn to ribbons by the tool. Finally, the bones were just about visible. The man set the tool aside, opting now to tear at the flesh by hand, exposing the ribs fully. He pressed a curved instrument between the first rib, pulling and prying it from its seat amongst the others. He began applying leverage and pressure, constant and steady. Sherlock bellowed and wailed, crying and groaning as he tried his hardest to bite back the deepest howls of agony he wanted to release. Every movement was agony, and the razor wire chewed and gnawed on top of the new injuries. Every sound and yell caused immense pain as his mouth was also broken to bits, his jaws broken and misaligned, his tongue speared and the spike still there. The man repeated this painful and slow process to the six ribs as ordered, leaving Sherlock a bare and broken mess, as he slipped in and out of consciousness. Finally he fell out completely.

Moriarty rolled his head about his shoulders, dark and hollow eyes boring into the unconscious man. “Revive him and I want you to proceed with the appendectomy and one kidney removal. Then bone tickling. Follow that with some dismemberment. Separate toes, move up to the knees, but work slowly. Then bring in the Generator.” He said. The man nodded.

Sherlock snapped awake, searing pain greeting him as well as the sinister face of the torture master over him. He felt that sick feeling as the man set the vial down, moving back to the tray from the bowels of hell itself. The man moved back to Sherlock’s torso, now making yet another incision, this for fun, Sherlock was certain of. Surely that large arse slice down his midsection would suffice, he thought bitterly. The man sawed away as Sherlock bit back his yells, but could not contain them all, as tears streamed like crystalline brooks training down his cheeks as the man snipped and carved the organs from his body. He was granted a few moments of peace before the beast of a human being returned with what looked like a fucking pickaxe! He dug the instrument deep into his leg, scraping and circling his shin, and this sent shocks of pain through his body. The man did this in several spots along both of his legs. He also took it upon himself to crack the pointed instrument painfully into his kneecaps a few times, making the detective see stars and fade to black a few times, just to be revived again.

This was apparently not the worst of it either. The blasted man came BACK! He had now another carving tool, and moved to his feet. Sherlock’s eyes widened in horror, trying to struggle away, ignoring the pain of the wires now. No avail. The man grabbed a foot, and began sawing off toes! Joint by motherfucking joint! Gods above the pain was intense! He screamed and cursed Moriarty and his entire lineage as the man laughed and danced off in the background. This was not the end, as the toes vanished, he moved to the foot, sectioning it into thirds, then carving off at the ankles! Son of a BITCH!! He had to be revived again at this, just to have his legs broken and carved off in fourths up to the knees. Then the motherfucker off in the background ordered the devil with the bone saw to BURN the stumps so he would not bleed out! The man pulled out a welding torch and lit it, and Sherlock was already shaking like a beaten Chihuahua, but now the pain was so bad he could not even make a sound, just lost all colour and started to black out. Again, he was revived, and left to feel the remainder of the procedure. This had gone on far too long, Sherlock thought to himself. Surely Jim would be growing bored soon? Then the beast returned with some kind of machine that hummed with the fury of a thousand bees. His eyes warily shifted to the wheeled menace. It was a generator with two paddles on either side, that had metal fucking bristles on them! Dear Lord could tis get any worse?

Just then the torture master pulled the two hell bristle paddles from the charged machines, and touched them. The room erupted in bright sparks, and a sudden JIZZZAK! He felt his heart stop. This damn thing was conductive, those were metal. That meant they could pierce, burn, and electrocute. Holy shit! Just then, another man soaked the sleuth’s body down with icy water, which stung every inch of his battered and tortured flesh. Before he even had the chance to recover from that, the paddles pierced his skin and his body snapped straight, his eyes rolling and the white hot current surged through his body. Burns scorched where the metal met flesh, and the man dragged the spiked brush along his torso, lifting pressing and trailing multiple patterns of burns. This went on got a few hours.

Finally, when Sherlock was barely able to keep his heart rate up, Jim called off the man. “Looks like this is the end of the line.” He moved toward the sleuth with a nasty grin. “Good bye, my greatest rival.” He said with a silly smirk. He looked to his man again and nodded. “I want you to pierce his lungs. He will drown on his own blood. That is his fate.”

The man smirked and nodded, bending two of the rib shards into Sherlock’s chest cavity, pressing them into his lungs. The men watched as slowly, Sherlock struggled, suffered, coughing and sputtering. He struggled with all he had, but finally he died, tears streaming down his face as he looked on at the men laughing at his fate.


End file.
